


An Arm Around Your Shoulders, Fingers On Your Lips

by qthelights



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Church Sex, Established Relationship, Filming, Hand Jobs, M/M, Public Sex, Quiet Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the behind-the-scenes clip where Misha and Jensen are in a church door, arms around each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Arm Around Your Shoulders, Fingers On Your Lips

They’re poised to do the scene, told to get ready. Almost...almost...and then, not so much. Jensen drops his hands from Misha’s forearm and shoulder in frustration and Misha goes lax and malleable against him. Jared and the co-star of the week behind them grumble good-naturedly about the delay.

Instead of letting go, though, Misha doesn’t bother to remove his arm from around Jensen’s shoulders. He leaves his hand there, simply hanging, while with his other he plays with the church door, caresses with pushes and tugs.

The wait to start could be infinite. The time to remove an arm from a shoulder less than a second. And yet, it remains there. It’s deliberate, so deliberate. And Misha is only doing it because he _can_. No one will think anything of holding the gesture, except, of course, Jensen.

Misha turns under his arm, his neck craning to see Jared behind them as he speaks. Carrying on a conversation, joking no less, as if having his arm around Jensen’s shoulders is the most natural thing in the world.

Jensen doesn’t actually hear, momentarily distracted by the way Misha’s body twists fluidly against him and the scent of cinnamon and soap that pervades his senses as the expanse of throat is bared to him.

Clearly it was amusing though, Jared chuckles behind him and Jensen follows suit, pretending he knows what Misha just said. He hopes it wasn’t about him, because that would look...really self involved.

Misha ducks back in, voice pitched solely at him this time. His breath is warm and moist against Jensen’s temple.

He still doesn’t hear what Misha says though. All he can think about is the way the side of Misha’s ribcage is pressed against his chest. The scent of Misha’s deodorant and sweat that is filling his senses. The way Misha’s arm rubs against the hairs at the back of his neck

There’s movement from the team in front of them and suddenly they’re on again, moving back into position. Misha tenses beside him and Jensen moves his hand back to Misha’s dangling wrist, his other hand creeping back over Misha’s far shoulder. He can’t help the slight squeeze he gives it.

Misha leans his weight onto him and they’re stumbling down the stairs on cue, Dean and Cas, together again.

The afternoon wears on as they rehearse, but they can’t film the actual scene until darkness falls. It won’t be long, but they’re still left with dead time.

Jared is on the phone to someone, raucous laughter erupting from him every couple of minutes as he paces on the other side of the location. The crew huddles in comfortable groups, chatting or rigging lighting and cameras.

Misha is deep in conversation with one of the grips, and Jensen watches as he nods intently, brow furrowing in concentration. He keeps making little gestures with his hands, long fingers forming shapes that remind Jensen of some kind of sign language. It’s distracting.

Jensen stands from his seat on the church stairs, script folded and learnt in his back pocket and moves through the small crowd towards Misha. He doesn’t stop though, moves to go around them. As he passes, he slips his fingers around Misha’s wrist, squeezes lightly at the pulse point and releases, lightning quick.

He nods at Misha and the grip, not slowing his pace and continues on towards the corner of the building. He knows Misha will follow, can already hear him excusing himself from his conversation, begging off to learn lines that there is no way Misha would come to set not knowing.

Jensen is propped against the back wall of the building and waiting when Misha slips around the corner himself, his face splitting into a grin as he sidles up through the overgrown tufts of grass, side-stepping rusted metal car parts.

“Hey,” Misha says softly, and beams at him.

“C’mere,” is all Jensen bothers to reply, reaching out to hook his fingers into the belt loops of Misha’s jeans and tug him close.

Misha’s mouth quirks in an almost laugh but melts and opens as Jensen’s mouth descends on him. Their tongues mesh together slow and unhurried, breath drawing in and out around them.

Jensen untangles his fingers from the waistband, slides his hands around to anchor firmly on Misha’s hips and keep him pulled flush against him. The church holds them up as they lean against it in probable sin.

After long moments have spun out from under them in the taste and heat of each other, Misha pulls back from him, quirks an eyebrow. “And to what do we owe the honour of this little rendezvous?”

But Jensen has no intention of having a conversation. He shakes his head and presses two fingers against Misha’s red-blushed mouth, silencing. Misha’s eyebrows reach heavenward, but he follows the sign and says nothing more.

Jensen slides out from under him, manoeuvres them so that Misha is now the one backed against the church, Jensen plastered over him. Hips to hips, legs tangled.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” Jensen asks, voice pitched low and private, placing his fingers back over Misha’s lips to indicate just how rhetorical he’s feeling right now.

Misha just stares at him, soundless behind Jensen’s fingers, eyes wide and glinting cloudy-grey. But Jensen can feel the thrum of electricity that flickers beneath his skin.

“Wearing that goddamn hoodie?” Jensen continues with an arch of an eyebrow, slips a hand down between them and cups Misha in his palm.

He counts the sudden dip of Misha’s eyelids as victory, feels him arch into his hand and hears him cut off the escaping sound in his throat.

“I know you’re doing it on purpose, you know...” He begins a slow rub against Misha’s jeans, feels him responding, hardening, beneath his fingers. Jensen’s ring, _Dean’s_ ring, clinks metallically each time he slides his fingers against the zip of Misha’s jeans. It’s surprisingly loud in their cocoon of imperative quiet.

“Keeping your arm over my shoulder, touching me...”

Misha looks intently at him, eyes wide and gloriously needy, hips shifting him almost imperceptibly into Jensen’s hand.

Jensen continues, voice low and steady, “...letting people see without knowing what they’re seeing.”

Misha squirms at that, and hitched little puffs of air escape his lips around Jensen’s pressing fingers. His eyes are wide and charcoal in their dilation, his whole body tensing under Jensen’s.

And he wants to take Misha apart, make him shatter, in a place where anyone could come around the corner at any second. Looking for a private place to have a smoke or take a piss. Looking for them.

“Thinking that you own me, Misha?” Jensen growls the name as he presses the heel of his hand tightly against him, allows Misha to buck against it once, twice, three times before he backs the pressure off.

Misha’s forehead crinkles in consternation, his hips jumping in search of purchase until Jensen takes pity and returns to the previous firm slide.

“Do you think that’s wise?” he asks, leans forward and nips lightly at Misha’s throat, unable to deny himself just a quick taste of skin, the feel of corded muscle jumping against his teeth.

He pulls back, and Misha moans soulfully at the loss. Jensen can feel the reverb against his fingertips.

“Do you?”

He waits a beat, two; his hand sliding firm against Misha’s erection, slipping lower, fingers trailing the seam of the denim.

“Because it makes me want to do things, Misha,” he draws out the name, pours it over his tongue, silky smooth and dark. “Stupid things, like fuck you in the middle of set.”

Misha’s eyes roll back slightly before his eyelids flutter shut. Tension skitters off him in waves that Jensen soaks up, feeds off. Needs. It goes straight to his groin, of course, but Jensen pays it little attention, simply enjoys the tightness winding its way through him like a serpent coiled to strike.

Misha is close, _very_ close, if the mewling noises he begins to make in the back of his throat are any indication, and Jensen knows full well that they are. Knows that Misha can’t help but make them.

Briefly, Jensen lets his own aching erection press against the back of his hand, presses his hand into Misha’s own want. It almost does him in, but this isn’t about him, not directly, and so he pulls, reluctantly, back.

He presses his hand tighter against Misha’s jeans, squeezes and rolls the hardness against the centre of his palm and dies a little in the guttural whimper of a plea that escapes Misha’s lips.

“It makes me want to fucking _claim you_ ,” Jensen growls against the shell of Misha’s ear, chases the words with the tip of his tongue.

And that, evidently, is what does it.

Misha freezes and his eyes wrench open, pupils narrowing to pinpricks at the onslaught of light and then expanding out in an eruption of lust. He shudders violently under Jensen as he comes, staring so profoundly earnestly into him that Jensen would worry over what he might see, if, that is, he hadn’t already shown him everything.

Misha shivers as he comes down, and his head falls back against the plywood wall with a soft thud. Jensen can feel the quiver of sated exhaustion flutter through him and threaten to topple, so he leans harder, props Misha up between God and himself.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Misha manages to whisper, mouth falling open as he does so.

Jensen lets his fingers slip inside, doesn’t suppress the shudder that threads down him as Misha’s lips close lazily around them and suck.

Jensen pulls his fingers out with a soft suctioning _pop_ , replaces them with his own mouth on Misha’s. The kiss is soft and meandering and a complete counterpoint to what came before it.

He leans his forehead against Misha’s, allows his eyes to close for just one stolen moment of nothingness.

Misha clears his throat, apparently testing his vocal ability, before he murmurs, words puffing hot against Jensen’s lips. “Thank god I’m not in wardrobe yet. ‘Cause this would not be easy to explain...”

Jensen laughs quietly and pulls back to look at the undone mess he’s made of Misha. He feels undeniably proud at the pink flush of cheeks, skew of hair and general unkempt air of him.

“Of course, if you _were_ in wardrobe and not in _my_ clothes which you pulled on, _off the floor_ , when you rolled out of my bed this morning, you probably wouldn’t have had this problem at all,” Jensen replies reasonably.

“Touché,” Misha agrees and tries to straighten himself up. He tilts his chin up in a question, ghosting his fingers across Jensen’s pants where he is still obviously hard. “Do you...?”

Jensen shakes his head, though he pushes against the touch all the same. “Later. Best get back. Jared will come looking.”

Misha rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless.

“Keep the sweater,” Jensen says as he disentangles himself and makes to slip back around the building. “It works for me.”

Misha just snorts indignantly at that, wisely says nothing.

Jensen makes it almost to the corner before he turns back, catches Misha’s eye and winks. “And try and keep it professional when we shoot the damn scene.”

End.


End file.
